


Broken

by London_The_Loser



Category: Bangtang Boys - Fandom, bts
Genre: Abuse, Addiction, Alcohol Abuse, Angst, Eating Disorders, Emotional Abuse, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Physical Abuse, Self Harm, Sociopath, Starving Yourself, Suicidal Thoughts, Verbal Abuse, Weed, hi this is really angsty, sociopathic tendencies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-09-26 07:13:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20385754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/London_The_Loser/pseuds/London_The_Loser
Summary: Yoongi was always amused by the word “numb” when describing empty. Because numb was a buzz. It was a constant ticking that filled your head full of cotton and shrouded your senses in ice cold water. Empty was empty. It was a pit in your chest, it was the empty space between your ribs where a heart should be. Empty never went away, no matter how much Yoongi tried. Nothing would yank away the empty. He was trapped in suffocating inky void.Or that was what he thought before eyes containing galaxies pierced his tar like prison. Maybe for him, he could let his non existent heart beat again. He could feel numb, he could feel pain, he could feel regret. Maybe for Park Jimin, he can feel love, he can feel happiness, and he can feel peace.





	1. Existing Stories

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, so this is my really angsty Fanfiction, I hope you enjoy. I am sorry if I lose motivation half way through....
> 
> 💜💜💜

+*•<*Epilogue*>•*+

Yoongi tells himself that there are things that bring him joy and things that send him tumbling to rock bottom. He desperately strikes out what has been written in ink, rewriting what is not meant to be rewritten. His book was written before Yoongi could speak, but he lives for destroying what he cannot control. The pages of his life were torn out and replaced with carefully crafted words to match the clichés. Clichés like guilt. Clichés like throbbing pain. Like deafening longing. Like sickening numbness. 

Yoongi wanted nothing more than to blend into a crowd of black and white faces, of one sided people. He wanted to be the definition of broken, just enough to be fixable. Because no story is written with a definite break. No flaw, no crease, no heartache. Happiness. But Yoongi was not broken. He was not full of sorrow, waiting for his Prince Charming. He was not flawed. 

Min Yoongi rewrote his story, he wrote in pages and pages of longing stares through broken windows at a treasure that could not be received. Of midnight tears and early morning pain. He fabricated what he believed to be a tale of time, of love and of misunderstanding. In this new story, Min Yoongi was broken. He was flawed. Min Yoongi was in pain. Because when he stared at the milky white canvas of his wrist, red beading at the surface, he was filled with regret. That he would do something so harmful to himself. In this story, Min Yoongi sat on the roof, ribbons of smoke flowing from his parted lips. He contemplated tipping forward, plummeting downward until all he could feel was nothing for once in his life. Because in this fucking story Min Yoongi has never felt void of feelings. And he longed for it. 

But even as Yoongi desperately wrote over the disappointing sentences and bullshit paragraphs, the truth always bled through. Because Min Yoongi wanted nothing more than to rip the void that lurked inside him away. He wanted to reach his long fingers down his throat and grasp the curtains of nothingness that shrouded his heart. He wanted desperately to feel the stinging prick behind his eyes when he sat on the roof, he wanted to feel shame and regret course through his veins as he slashed his wrists. But all he feels is disappointment. Disappointment at the fact that even the red coated pinch of a blade can’t take away what he was trapped with. On bad days, he imagines slashing his wrists, watching his blood turn a suffocating black before oozing out of him, staining the floors with nothing until his heart beats freely. Yoongi wishes his death will be painful. So very painful. He wishes his death will be full of tears and sobs and regrets. Regrets that he didn’t live longer. 

Yoongi has never yearned for emptiness. He wishes he could tell every broken soul longing for a shroud of nothing over their hearts. He wishes he could make them understand how much worse the void feels. It’s not numb, it’s not pain, it’s not regret. It’s absolutely nothing. Yoongi has never lived without it. He had never lived without the burning hot sensation that courses through his body while the void eats away what is left of his body. 

Yoongi’s story will never be told just one way. Those who read it will find words intertwining, pages folded together and tacked in. Each person finds a new way to weave through the mess that is Min Yoongi’s story, but only one person reads the truth. A story of nothingness that was always hiding a desperate something, fighting to break free from the tightening grasp of dull apathetic blackness. Maybe long Fingers could reach down his throat and yank it out. Maybe if a biting edge could free it from its imprisonment in his skin. Maybe death could wash it away for just a moment, just one, excruciatingly painful moment. 

Or maybe the desperate something could fight harder if only it had a reason to. Maybe a short boy with eyes that hold the shining stars in the night sky could be that reason. 

So as Min Yoongi desperately strikes out every last bullshit paragraph of his bullshit story, Park Jimin grasps the words, weaving them into something almost as beautiful as Yoongi’s gummy smile.

•<[][][][][][][][][][]>•

Smoke slowly crept through the air, twisting and warping until the space was covered in a hazy grey. The clock hanging  
on the wall continued to tick duly, offering its comfort as the white noise accompanied the wafting smoke. A chilling breeze crawled snowy into the room from the window, disrupting the disabled smoke detector hanging by wires from the ceiling. The white circular slab of plastic slowly oscillated as the cold air danced around it, a quiet thump ringing out as it gently collided with the wall. A taunting ribbon of smoke drew closer, as of daring the lifeless director to catch it. To anyone else, the scene of smoke and wind dancing around a smoke detector slowly swinging back and forth would seem normal, the clock ticking to provide a steady rhythm as they spun and waved between each other. Chapped lips slowly opened as burning grey ribbons pushed against the walls of tar filled lungs, allowing them to slip through and join in the dance. Goosebumps slowly crawled up his creamy white arms, the cold breeze had moved on from the swaying plastic and on to the shivering mass laying on the floor. 

Allowing the paper cylinder to once again release an army of smokey ribbons into his system, Yoongi let the cold crawl over his body like ants. He kept his lips shut like a gate until tears sprung to his eyes on instinct from the sharp ache in his lungs. They weren’t ever the tears he longed for, but they would do. He vaguely heard the door of his shitty apartment opening, but he didn’t seem to care as more ribbons shrouded his senses. Yoongi concentrated on holding the burning smoke inside, egging his body on, desperate for the moisture in his eyes to allow one tear to slip down his cheeks. The ache turned into needles slowly driving themselves into his innards. The pain was sufferable, but he wouldn’t give up. Not yet. He stared upward to distract himself, looking out the open window to the sky, lights strung across the swirling navy plain. Yoongi contemplated stepping out into the deep blue skies, letting those lights tangle around him as he flew towards their promised warmth. He contemplated the difference between flying and falling as his face turned red from the lack of clean oxygen. Maybe he could pass out for a bit. He knew if he did he would probably choke on the needles digging into his flesh, but he found that he really didn’t care. Tearing his eyes away from the swirling sky, he glanced back up only to find the face of a very pissed off looking Namjoon. He would address his presence, but that would mean opening his gate to let the needles waft out disguised as the dancing ribbons of grey above them. But he wouldn’t, he wasn’t giving up, not when he was so close. Maybe next time he could bring his razor to bring the tears closer to ripping off the edge and onto his soft cheeks. Namjoon seemed to register that he wasn’t going to let the digging needles out. Yoongi watched as he slowly closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He knew what the taller boy would do, it has happened before, and Yoongi was grateful for it. And then a foot was brought down harshly on his frail fingers, shoving his tears out of his eyes and prying the gate open to allow the cleverly disguised needles from their prison. Yoongi sat up with a jerking cough, yanking his hand into his chest as the taste of tears found their way to the edge of his mouth. Carefully counting, Yoongi was disappointed to find only two had been shed. Disappointment, that’s all he ever felt. 

Yoongi knew how much pain it caused the younger to hurt him in such a way, but maybe if he could just hurt Namjoon enough he would start to feel guilt weighing down his heart. But as Yoongi looked up, the only weight he felt was disappointment as Namjoon’s pained face did nothing to the shrouding emptiness. Hysteria mixed with the glorious delirium from the weed pushed on the edges of his mind, making his body shake from the feeling of it all. He felt the desperate need to feel tears slide down his face once again. Maybe if the needles dug in deep enough into his lungs, they would pierce into the emptiness beyond. So he slowly drew his hand away from his chest towards the half used joint on his right. His fingers just barely touched it before Namjoon had snatched it away, crushing it under his heal. Yoongi wanted to say something, he did, but the ache in his lungs resonated as he took slow, raspy breaths. It was always the same, ever-changing routine. Except sometimes it was Soekjin or Hoseok barging on to rip his joint away, his blade away. On bad days he’s claw at there arms, seeing them as an opportunity to drive his empty chest towards guilt. Maybe if he saw the red marks and purple bruises on their arms he would feel remorse. It hadn’t taken Taehyung to realize that Yoongi wasn’t getting better. He left in a storm, screaming and yelling after Yoongi had almost clawed out his eyes. His words stabbed into Yoongi, leaving deeper marks than his blades ever could. 

“He doesn’t care about you Jin! He won’t care about anyone! He can’t! If he cared there would be at least a glimmer in his eyes as he hurts you!” He spun on his heels, pointing at Namjoon. “How long are you going to protect him as he does this shit that should land him in jail! He tried to run someone over, for fucks sake! You think he’s going to feel anything?!” Once again he was whipping around, faxing Hoseok, who had tears gathering in his big eyes. Yoongi wanted to feel bad, he wanted to hurt so bad as he saw his favorite person on the verge of tears. Taehyung’s face softened. “Hobi, he’s never going to go back to how he was. He’s not going to change. Stop nurturing the fantasy that he will feel anything. He’s empty. Stop waiting for him to feel pain or happiness!” He turned back to Yoongi, who sat helplessly, staring blankly at the furious blond. “If you even cared an once about even one of us, there would be a flicker of remorse in those cold dead eyes. But you can’t feel shit, much less guilt at what you’re doing to these beautiful people.” Maybe he was hoping for something, even if it was just a small slouch or the elders shoulders to show he wasn’t a heartless bastard. But as Yoongi slowly stood up and turned to walk away, Taehyung new that it was over, that it was time to leave, to give up on fixing what wasn’t even broken. Because Yoongi was broken. How can someone be broken if they don’t even exist?


	2. Something that is Nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided that I wanted most of the chapters written in a different style.

"What does blood look like"

The sound of a page softly turning was cut short. 

"What do you mean? You know what blood looks like."

A sigh.

"Your right. I do."

The sound of a page softly turning continued. 

"But what does it look like pulsing through you."

This time, no pages were turned. 

"Well... I'm sure $@&)!)(#*$#&@&%&"

Their two gazes met.

"What would bones look like if they were ripped out of you?"

The pages remained still.

"What would blood look like... dripping out of you."

Remained still.

"What would your heart look like with a spear through it?"

Still.

"What would your skin look like hanging out on a rack?"

Nothing. 

"Where did you go?"

This time, the gentle thump of a book hitting the table could be heard. But only if you were listening. Who was listening?

"I'm right $&^(@)@!&%(#&!"

Alone again. 

"You know, you're not here anymore, but it feels like you are. It always does. You were never here."

Soft feet padded across the carpet. If you listened, you could hear them. 

"Nobody was ever here."

Legs bent and landed just close enough to roughly to be audible. But who was listening? 

"Where is here?"

Hands came up. They found their destination. Was someone trying to feel them?

"Do my ribs belong inside my body?"

If anyone was feeling anything, then the tears would have meant something more. 

"What does love feel like?"

Somewhere, somewhere, someone knew. But that someone wasn't here. Who was here?

"What does anything feel like?"

Somewhere, somewhere someone knew. And maybe that person was right there. But who was paying attention. 

"I don't feel anything"

Maybe if someone was paying attention, they would have heard the desperation in that voice. 

"Why don't I feel anything"

Was anyone paying attention?

"Why."

Why wasn't anyone paying attention?

"Help."

It didn't matter.

"Please"

Nothing mattered.

"Get it out of me"

Nothing.

"I..."

Something.

"You..."

Nothing.

"Why can't I-

Something. 

“You need to help me....”

Nothing.

“I don’t want this.”

Nothing.

There was nothing.

And maybe if anyone had noticed, they would have seen that there was just a little bit of something.

But nobody noticed.

No one was there.

Something.... but....

“You need to get away from me.”

o

Alone.

Empty.

Cold.

—————————————

"What does blood look like"

Jin looked up, abruptly ending his quick reading break. Well that was strange.

"What do you mean? You know what blood looks like.” Because Jin really was confused. What the hell was he talking about? He heard Yoongi sigh, but that wasn’t necessarily a strange thing to hear. "Your right. I do." Although Yoongi had many strange moments of revelation, this one seemed especially strange to Jin. None the less, he moved on. Just like he moved on when Yoongi came back drunk almost every night for 2 months. Or moved on when Yoongi stopped eating for a week. Because it was Yoongi. Yoongi always had those moments. And he always figured them out. 

"But what does it look like pulsing through you."

This time, Jin froze. Yoongi figures himself out, but when his mind travels to places like these, it was exceptionally hard to pull him out.

"Well... I'm sure that aught to be quite the painful experiment, now wouldn’t it.” He knew, he always knew, that jokes never had much effect on Yoongi like they did on the others. But he still needed to try. Yoongi glanced up. And for some reason, Jin couldn’t help but feel that he hadn’t heard a single word he said. 

"What would bones look like if they were ripped out of you?"

It would be an understatement to say Jin was worried, because he knew it never got bad enough to come flowing out just like that.

"What would blood look like... dripping out of you."

Jin quickly reached for his phone, typing a message out onto the group chat.

"What would your heart look like with a spear through it?"

Every passing second was another layer of tension, and Jin didn’t know what to do. The others had went out for groceries, and they were still 20 minutes away.

"What would your skin look like hanging out on a rack?"

His broad shoulders grew more and more rigid, and he tried more than anything to force away the looming images that Yoongi’s words feverishly carved into the air.

"Where did you go?"

This time, Jin recognized what was happening. Dissociation. He knew how to help. So as carefully and quickly as he could, he made his way over the plushly carpeted living room floor.

"I'm right here Yoon Yoon, what do you need?” He tried to speak as comfortingly and as gently as possible” 

"You know, you're not here anymore, but it feels like you are. It always does. You were never here."

He continued to walk to rest of the way over, quite a bit more hurriedly.

"Nobody was ever here."

Jin sucked in a quiet breath. Gosh was this out of his expertise. He felt helpless. But either way, he gently crouched down in front of the couch that Yoongi has curled up on, folding his hands quietly in his lap.

"Where is here?"

Maybe he just needed a little reminder that Jin was here? Yes. That had to be it. Tentatively, Jin reaches out and grazed his fingers over the soft skin of Yoongi’s thigh, before settling it there.

"Do my ribs belong inside my body?"

Okay, that wasn’t working. And maybe Jin squeezes a little harder when he saw tears slip down Yoongi’s face. Glancing at the clock, Jin prayed that the others would be here soon.

"What does love feel like?"

Jin knew this. He knew he knew this, but he still found himself stumbling over which words to choose, how he could explain the burning feeling in his chest as he watched his younger brother break down.

"What does anything feel like?"

Yet again, this was so much different than it usually was. Because usually, Yoongi found himself pushing away his emotions, desperate to feel absolutely nothing. But it almost seemed as if he was trapped. Like he was stuck and he couldn't get out.

"I don't feel anything"

At this point, Jin was sure the grip on Yoongi's leg would leave a bruise. He was sure that his own tears found themselves spilling onto his cheeks. He was sure that the door swung open. He was sure that his family was making their way towards him. He was sure he wasn't alone anymore. But it didn't matter. It didn't. Because Yoongi felt alone, and they were all here.

"Why don't I feel anything"

Words were flying, and he didn't know what to do. 

"What happened?"

"Yoonie?"

"Jinnie what's wrong with him?"

"Hyung we need you to say something"

"Guys he's saying something!"

And once again it was silent. Bodies crowded together as they all leaned in to try and get a grasp at the incoherent mumbles that left the second eldest's mouth.

"Why."

Silence. It was still silent. Quiet. Were they finally alone?

"Help."

Nothing. Not a word. Not a breath. Not a tear, a noise, a shift.

"PLEASE"

The first hands reached out, because Yoongi was loud. Louder than they had ever heard him.

"Get it out of me"

Time froze once again, and they didn't know what to do. How to help. How to save their friend, their family, their brother.

"I..."

He seemed confused, so fucking confused.

"You..."

Hobi suddenly stood, rushing to the kitchen. Namjoon got the memo and jogged to his bedroom, Jungkook speeding to the bathroom. The rest of them continued to crowd the distressed male, desperate to do something for him. Anything.

"Why can't I-

Hobi returned with a glass of water and a damp rag. He gently placed the water on the table, carefully dabbing at Yoongi's damp forehead with the rag.

“You need to help me....”

Namjoon came back with a pillow and a blanket, and Jungkook walked in with Yoongi's sleeping pills.

“I don’t want this.”

“You need to get away from me.”

It wasn't what he had said that sent goosebumps up their arms. It wasn't the way he went stiff that made them all jerk away. No, it wasn't the anger or frustration in his tone that made Jin slowly slide down onto the floor to get a better view of the small boy. Because there was no anger. Their was no panic, no sadness, no desperation. And when they all stared at his sweat covered face, at his rigid body, all they saw was a blank slate. An empty chalk board. It scared them. It scared them more than they would like to admit.


	3. Deep Breaths

Colors flashed ahead, chaos sweeping through the room like a tidal wave. His senses were pierced with the overwhelming feeling of it all. Smells and colors, sounds and sights clouded together, crowding his foggy brain. His mind struggled to comprehend the plethora of thoughts swirling around. He felt himself stumble, too distracted by the smell of beer and sex wafting through the room to focus on his footsteps. The bright colors blinded him, his eyes too confused to adjust. Although, nothing was important as soon as he felt the cold metal of an iron door, as it swung open and he was shoved inside. Because as the mood shifted and the only smell in the air was of rotting roses and smoke, the only thing that was clear after his tangled thoughts was fear. 

Yoongi’s eyes drifted upwards slowly, ignoring the throb in his mind telling him to run.

He hadn’t. He hadn’t, and it was the worst mistake of his life. 

Maybe if he had, he wouldn’t have become what he was now. If he had, he wouldn’t have hurt his friends. If he had, he wouldn’t have seen the pain in his their eyes. If he had, he wouldn’t have craved the sweet embrace of pain.

It didn’t matter either way, because he hadn’t. He hadn’t run, and he paid for his mistake in throaty screams and desperate tears, because god fucking damnit he was ripped to shreds and pitifully sewn back together that night. The seams will always be rough, but still enough to hold him together. He wished they were jagged. Wished they were sharp, so he could drag his hand across it and watched blood pool.

He wished his soul boiled enough to eat through his once soft skin. He wished his mind was clouded in enough poison to melt through previously blackened lungs. 

But it wasn’t, and he hadn’t, and he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He shouldn’t. 

——————————

Dull rays of sun crept in past the black-out curtains, dragging a soft groan from the sleeping boy. How disappointing. The covers shifted, and time went on. Soon a steady stream of warm rays were leaking from every gap in the drapes. The sun moved too fast, Yoongi thought as he slowly cracked his eyes open, sluggishly raising his hand to rub the sleep from his eyes. Another groan pushed past his pursed lips as too many thoughts came tumbling in to his blissfully empty mind, scratching out any idea of more sleep. So instead Yoongi threw his legs over the side of his twin sized bed which had been surprisingly used that night. Most of the time, Yoongi slept on the floor, the roof, someone else’s bed. The latter used to earn him a good amount of scolding, but he could never bring himself to care about their sharp words, too focused on the slight yet faint twinge of hope at the idea of finally feeling something. He never did. Slowly the last remnants of hope faded, and in came the disappointment. At least, that’s what Yoongi thought it was, seeing as he couldn’t quite remember what disappointment felt like.

It had been a year since he started drowning, and a thick layer of ice had formed. It trapped him, blocked him. Yoongi had hoped he would drown eventually. Instead, he lost the need to breathe. 

Quietly stepping onto the carpeted floor, he made his way to the kitchen. I didn’t exactly care if he woke the other up, but he knew their appearance would result in further inconvenience. He would much rather escape to his classes before he was spotted. The only sound in the room was his gentle shuffling, which was soon keeping rhythm with the ticking of the clock on the wall. 

Left heel down, tick  
Left pad down, tock  
Right heel down, tock  
Right pad down, tock

The easy pattern allowed Yoongi’s mind to drift, and he found himself gladly incorporating his usual count. 

Left heel down, tick, 1  
Left pad down, tock, 2  
Right heel down, tock, 3  
Right pad down, tock, 2  
Left heel down, tick, 1  
Left pad down, tock, 2  
Right heel down, tock, 3  
Right pad down, tock, 2 

It was easy. It was simple. 

Before Yoongi new it, he was stepping into their calmly lit kitchen, eyeing the fridge before shrugging off the idea. He didn’t feel like breakfast. Instead, he walked towards the coffee machine, filling up the pot and pouring in the coffee ground with precise and practiced movements. Setting the cup on the tray and shutting the machine with just the right amount of force, he hit the start button. He stared at the dark coffee slowly leaking into the cup, mind wandering towards dripping liquid. 

Yoongi’s thoughts stilled when he heard footsteps, and he felt his shoulders tense at the lack of rhythm they kept. Jin. How disappointing. At that thought he found himself turning around, facing the other presence in the room. It wasn’t that he necessarily disliked Jin. In fact, he had a distinct memory of giggling until their faces were red, and another of crying on the rooftop. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t keep his usually rhythm when Jin was there. The constant ticking in his mind was replaced with an uncomfortable buzz of what he knew used to be there. He believed that it had been a warm comfort at the others presence. It sounded peasant. He wanted it back. 

Jin smiled brightly, but the coffee had finished. He would greet the elder, he knew he should. But the interaction would just try to pull him towards the surface, the ice unusually thin this morning. Uncomfortably thin. Thin enough to break through if he would try hard enough. He knew he would be disappointed at the lack of emotion once more, but he found that he couldn’t be bothered to try. Not again. Either way, he would be fine. How could he belong at the surface if he no longer required air? 

So he decided on a curt nod, grabbing the steaming cup. The burn of the hot porcelain under his palms comforted his mind. Checking the clock, he began to count the seconds until he needed to leave, pushing off the counter he had been leaning on. His goal was to push past Jin's broad figure leaning against the door, a seemingly simple task. But of course, Jin saw something in Yoongi's empty eyes that he didn't even realize had been there. That was something Yoongi could never understand. Jin seemed to read his book like he was the one that had written it. Yoongi made yet another mental note to do something unexpected, something spontaneous and irrational. Anything to take away that knowing glint in his elder's eyes. He moved around the kitchen, falling into his pattern. The numbers joined the ones that were already there, the number of seconds until it was time to leave. 1 123212321231232123212321... 3763, 3762, 3761, 3760, 3759... Before he could move past Jin, he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. "Hey, you in there?" That was a dumb question. He never was. Never would be. But the words, they carried a ghost of hurt. Yoongi didn't like that. Didn't like the thought of desperately banging on the ice, thrashing in the freezing water, trying to breathe, longing for air. It wasn't something that was needed (It wasn't something he deserved). Still, Jin would see the glint in his eyes if he lied. So he just sighed, disappointed. "Thin." And then he was pushing through the elder, maybe a little harder than necessary. It didn't matter. The other needed to know that he has crossed a line. That he was trying to get lost in a world that he wasn't ready for (that I'm not ready for). A world of cold (of warmth). Of frigid water (of air). A world of loneliness (of love). Yoongi thought for a second about turning back, grabbing an apple. But no, Mondays meant exactly 1675 calories. Mondays were meant to be the hardest days. A challenge always calmed his mind, and his mind was the worst on Mondays. He already had a lunch, 675 calories exactly. Dinner was 1000. Simple math. Easy math. And obviously, an apple would complicate things. 123212321232123212321232123212321... Yoongi chose a generally appealing outfit. One that made him seem cold, but still human. Maybe even a little broken. A black hoodie, his usual baseball cap with 2 rings on the rim, and ripped black skinny jeans. Staring at himself thoughtfully, he decided to tuck a simple white bandanna in one of his belt loops. Simple, but necessary. 3056, 3055, 3054, 3053, 3052...

Gently laying back into bed, careful not to wrinkle his hoodie, which had been thoroughly ironed the previous night, same for all his clothes. The top of his ceiling was littered with memories. Yoongi couldn't remember a time when he looked up from his bed and felt something. Pictures and glowing stars had been layered heavily on the popcorn styled ceiling, each one holding some significance. All he saw was disappointment. He knew he should hate this... this feeling. He knew he should despise, he should want it to be gone. But he learned his lesson months ago, and he no longer struggled to breathe. He didn't need to. 

He enjoyed the peaceful serenity that emptiness provided. Enjoyed the lack of complication. He found himself shocked at the amount of harm emotions did, but he was even more shocked at the sheer yearn for them he had for so long. He doesn't see it now. But maybe he just doesn't see himself. Or maybe he just isn't himself. How can he be human if he doesn't even breathe? If he isn't human, then he can't be broken. If he isn't human, than he doesn't deserve a story. But it didn't matter. Because Yoongi was selfish. Yoongi was selfish, and somewhere deep in his mind, a part of him was still struggling to emerge. That disappointed him.  
256, 255, 254, 253, 252, 251, 250, 249, 248...

He knew it was almost time to leave. He knew, but the numbers where addicting. He always did this, always got stuck. He knew it was dangerous to focus on them, on the numbers, on the counting. At least that's what the psychiatrist had told him, that he could get too lost in them and forget why he even started to begin with. That was silly, Yoongi had numbers for that exact reason; to remember why he was here. To remember who he was, what he was doing. Sometimes though he found himself lost in the bliss of the slowly decreasing sequence.  
198, 197, 196, 195, 194, 193, 192, 191, 190...

He wanted to watch the numbers flicker to zero and fade out in his mind. It made him feel accomplished, like he had finally done it. Finally pushed something towards nothing, finally pushed something other than himself. 

But of course, the knock on his door pulled him away from the numbers flashing red in his empty skull, clearer than anything he saw with his eyes. It was time to leave, but he didn't get the satisfaction of finding that out by himself. Sighing, Yoongi sat up and pulled his mask over his pale face, checking himself in the mirror one more time before briskly walking towards the door. Key's on the bedside table had been grabbed, wind breaker hanging on the bedpost had been grabbed, most appealing book on the shelf had been grabbed, book bag hanging on the hook had been slung over his shoulder. Carefully tucking his phone and earbuds in his pocket, he knew he was ready to go. He knew he was ready, but he didn't feel ready. He never felt ready. And maybe it was because that feeling of forgetting something was always with him. That feeling of missing something. He knew what that something is, but it didn't matter anymore. 

Humans felt emotions, but humans needed to breathe. He had come to the conclusion that he was no longer human many months ago. That was why he didn't feel anything anymore. That was why he was empty. That was why his insides were filled with tar. Because freedom from him cage was a privilege, one that he did not deserve. Only humans deserved freedom, but humans need to breathe. Min Yoongi had been trapped for so long, had been cold for so long, had been weak for so long, that he had lost the need to feel. To touch. To breathe. 

Min Yoongi was not broken. How could someone be broken if they weren't even human?

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you lOved iT


End file.
